


Until Death . . .

by nnaylime



Category: Castle
Genre: F/M, Mystery, Sexual Tension, Shenanigans, Yuletide 2010
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 21:27:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nnaylime/pseuds/nnaylime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a serial killer offing honeymooners in New York City, and Beckett & Castle’s investigation takes a rather *personal* turn. The prompt given was: "During their latest case together, Castle and Beckett finally start to realize their feelings for each other. When the case is over they act on them much to the relief of Castle's family and their co-workers."I hope this fits what you had in mind!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until Death . . .

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mark_C](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mark_C/gifts).



> I am forever indebted to both sternel and zinke for their assistance with the “verisimilitude” of New York City and suggestions for plot points. I also owe an extra helping of thanks to sternel for the “le petit mort” pun and the quick and dirty last minute beta and whipping my homophones into shape

“The full moon hung over the Empire State Building like a crown jewel atop the Big Apple’s diadem,” Richard Castle read from the flickering screen on his laptop. “Tell me the truth,” he asked of his mother and daughter, “what do you think?”

“Well . . .” Alexis tried to buy time, but was interrupted by her grandmother who stuck her tongue out while offering an emphatic thumbs down. “It’s just that . . .” Alexis pressed on, searching for a diplomatic response.

“It sucks,” Martha said with the direct candor only a mother can manage.

Castle sighed and flipped his laptop closed in defeat. “You're right.”

“You've had writer's block before, Dad.” Alexis slipped around to his side of the table to embrace him loosely from behind. "You'll figure something out."

Castle reached backward to return the embrace. “Thank you, Sweetie.” He then angled his head to glare pointedly at his mother. "At least _someone_ in this family believes in me.”

“I believe in you, Darling.” Martha rose to refill her coffee. “I believe you can do better than. . .” she swept her hand expansively toward his hibernating computer, " _that_."

Castle sighed, dejectedly, “yeah. . .”

“Buck up!” Martha patted him breezily on the back. “I’m sure you’ll get some inspiration soon. Oh!” she added, “that reminds me! Detective Beckett called.”

“What!?” He pushed his laptop aside. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m _telling_ you now,” she said with a slight edge of defensive indignation.

He waited pointedly for her to convey the message, and when she failed to do so, he finally was forced to ask, “What did she say?”

Martha spun on one foot to reach for the slip of paper that had the message written on it. “She wants you to meet her at the Plaza.”

“Murder?” he asked, his voice taking on a hopeful note for the first time that morning.

“God, I _hope_ so! At least it’ll get you out of the house.” Martha answered even as her son was already halfway to the door.

=====//=====

Upon arriving at the Plaza, Castle’s hopes for a murder began to sink; there were no crowds, no police cars with flashing strobe lights, no yellow tape. He fished his cell phone from his pocket, prepared to call his mother and verify the location, when Kate Beckett’s photo instead appeared on the screen.

“Beckett!” He answered with her name.

“Castle! Where are you? Didn’t you get my message?”

“I’m in front of the Plaza,” he answered her first question, before moving on to next. “And my mother told me you’d called, but . . .”

“Then what are you waiting for?” Beckett asked. “We’re in room 1254. Get your ass up here.” Before he hung up she added, “and for God’s sake don’t come in the front entrance. Police use the service entrance.”

“Of course.

He’d been in the Plaza before the lobby awash in a sea of those seeing and those hoping to be seen. It was different now, using the service entrance—absent the energy and low-level buzz of conversation, it seemed almost too still, foreign, as though he were navigating the lobby underwater—everything too slow and too quiet.

The uneasy feeling stayed with him on the ride up in the elevator. Beyond just the general apprehension of what might be waiting upstairs, he had the albatross of his next manuscript weighing on his psyche, and . . .

The elevator dinged on arrival on his floor, and he took a deep breath, preparing to face Beckett and the corpse.

=====//=====

Corpses.

Plural.

“Castle, you made it.” Detective Kate Beckett gave him only a passing glance before returning her attention to the macabre scene in front of her.

“T.O.D. is approximately thirty-six hours ago; rigor’s already gone, but there’s almost no putrescence,” Lanie Parish surmised and signaled that the bodies could be zipped into the bags and taken away.

“That long?” Castle asked, his morbid curiosity drawing him closer even as the idea of ‘putrescence’ made his stomach churn.

“They were honeymooners,” Beckett explained. “Housekeeping didn’t suspect anything until they missed check-out. They were probably strangled,” she added. “Obvious ligature marks and petechiae in the eyes, but I’ll know for sure once I get them back to the lab.”

“Clearly, _le petit mort_ turned into _le grand mort_.” Castle peered closer.

The couples’ eyes were wide open in the fixed, unfocused stare of death. They were on their backs, side-by-side, on the hotel bed—the bedding underneath them, undisturbed. Castle tilted his head as he regarded the scene. “This is truly unnatural,” he surmised with lips pursed.

“Of course it is!” Beckett answered. “It’s a murder scene.”

He shook his head. “No—” He gestured toward the bed. “How many couples on a honeymoon do you know who don’t mess up the sheets?”

Beckett blinked in surprise, as though the thought had just occurred to her.

“This matches the pattern from the other murders; doesn’t it?” Esposito asked.

Castle turned from Esposito to Beckett and back again. “Other . . . murders?” he asked. “What _other_ murders?”

With a sigh, Beckett explained, “This is the third murder of honeymooners in eight weeks.”

“Yeah, and all of them were on top of the sheets—like these two,” Esposito added.

“Really?” Castle’s excitement was clearly growing, and he looked at Beckett for confirmation.

“Really,” she said, with mild annoyance.

“A serial killer?” he asked, with excitement that was almost reminiscent of a child on Christmas morning.

Beckett shook her head. “A pattern.”

Still his excitement was undampened. “Do you know what this means?”

“We’re going to have to get the FBI involved. . .” she said as though she was thinking aloud.

“Yeah, that too,” he acknowledged quickly, before returning to his thought, “but more importantly, we’ve gotta get married.”

“I beg your pardon.” She looked at Castle as though he’d grown a second head.

“Well, not _really_ married,” he qualified quickly. “Pretend married.”

She narrowed her eyes in abject skepticism. “ _Pretend_ married.”

He nodded, not quite understanding why this was so difficult for her to understand. “Pretend married,” he repeated. “We’ll pretend to be newlyweds and smoke out the bad guy.”

Beckett cocked her head at him. “Did you just say ‘smoke out’?”

“Put the squeeze on,” he offered as an alternative, “sweat ‘em out. . .”

With an expression that was caught between indignant and indulgent, Beckett shook her head. “No.”

“No?” he wasn’t sure anymore what they were talking about.

She shook her head. “Castle, I can’t pretend marry you.”

“Why not?” he persisted. “Everyone does it.”

Painfully aware that the attention of those in the hotel room had shifted from the very real, very dead newlyweds, to the hypothetical nature of their pretend marriage, Beckett ushered him out into the hallway. “What are you talking about?”

“Come _on_ ,” he said, as though it should have been obvious to her. “Any time there’s a crime specifically targeting married couples, you gotta go undercover as a married couple. Lois Lane and Superman did it in _Superman II_ ; Mulder and Scully did it.” He stopped, realizing that he’d lost her somewhere between Superman and Mulder and Scully.

She sighed, though the corners of her mouth lifted up revealing that she was not as irritated as she would’ve had him believe. “Please tell me that you don’t still believe everything you see on TV even after shadowing me for this long.”

“Well . . .” he was mollified. “Not _entirely_ . . .” Still, he pressed, “What about cop shows? Benson and Stabler have done it.” He paused, pursing his lips. “Actually, he was a crooked customs agent, and she was. . .” He looked her up and down with unbridled interest. “How do you feel about pretending to be . . .”

“I’ve seen that episode,” she interrupted him, “No.”

He glanced at her again. “Are you sure?” he asked, leering, “I think you’d make a great . . .”

“No!” she interrupted a little more vehemently. “En oh.” His face fell, and she softened a bit, “Come on; we need to get back to the station.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he agreed, with a bit more enthusiasm than he felt.

=====//======

There was a tension between the two of them on the ride back—neither sure what a safe topic of conversation was. As they neared the station, he decided to press his case again.

“Will you at least think about it?”

Once again, she shook her head vehemently. “Castle, no.”

“What about . . .” He followed her into the building, still protesting.

“No!” she cut him off again.

“’No’ what?” Montgomery asked, unable to avoid overhearing the discussion.

Beckett closed her eyes to avoid rolling them. “Castle thinks the best way to catch the guy is for use to pose as newlyweds.”

Captain Montgomery contemplated this for a moment and then announced, “I like it.”

Both Castle and Beckett turned toward Montgomery, in shock, simultaneously exclaiming, “You do!?”

He nodded. “Traditional detective work hasn’t gotten us anywhere, and the mayor’s starting to get itchy about losing the traditional honeymooner business when word of this freak killing newlyweds gets out. Plus,” Montgomery added, “he called and suggested something along these lines about half an hour ago. Saw something along those lines—got the idea from an old re-run of ‘Remington Steele’.”

“‘Remington Steele’!” Castle exclaimed. “I forgot that one.”

Montgomery continued, “We’ve been given some extra discretionary spending to cover this—and I’ll go ahead and arrange to have the two of you checked into the Roosevelt.”

“The Roosevelt?” Castle was confused. “Not the Plaza?”

“None of the murders have taken place at the same hotel,” Beckett explained.

“How do we know they’re going to hit the Roosevelt next?” Castle asked, not sure whether it was of Beckett or Montgomery.

Montgomery was the one to answer. “We don’t,” he said, simply, “but all the murders have taken place at big hotels in Midtown. So, the Roosevelt makes as much sense as any other.” He turned back to face the duo. “Get packed,” he ordered, “I’ll make the arrangements and then check back here—any thoughts on cover names.”

“Malcom Reynolds,” Castle spoke before Beckett had a chance. “Malcom and Inara Reynolds.”

“Sounds good,” Montgomery answered with a curt nod. “I’ll see you back here in an hour.”

They walked slowly out, Bekett as though she was heading to her execution, and Castle as though he’d was a kid on the way to the circus. “Cheer up!” he said, “it’s your wedding night.”

“No,” she countered. “It’s not.”

“Is the idea of marrying me really all that bad?” he asked, quietly.

Her mouth quirked up in the corners as she answered him, “Not _that_ bad,” she finally admitted. “Just this isn’t how I used to imagine my wedding when I was a little girl.”

“How did you imagine it,” he asked, putting his hand in the small of her back as they walked down the hallway.

She shrugged, and her expression grew wistful. “I don’t know,” she evaded the question. “White dress, romance, you know—the usual.”

He nodded, “You deserve it.”

The tension between them returned, and Castle sighed. He was no longer sure even of how to put one foot in front of another, let alone string the words of a sentence together. Beckett spoke, “Do you want me to drop you off at your place on the way?”

He shook his head. “No; that’s okay. I have some stuff I have to do first.”

She looked almost disappointed at the decision, but instead glared at him pointedly. “Don’t be late.”

“I won’t,” he said, sincerely.

Beckett watched over her shoulder as he walked away. He was up to something.

=====//=====

Beckett arrived at the station to find Castle waiting for her. In marked contrast to Castle’s multiple large suitcases, she carried only a small overnight bag. “That all you packed?” he asked with great skepticism. “We’re supposed to be on our honeymoon.”

“I know.” She smirked. “You wear a lot of clothes on your honeymoon, Castle?”

He almost tripped over his own feet in as he followed her.

“Wait!” he stopped her right before she raised her hand to hail a cab.

“What?” She turned.

He pulled a small box out of his pocket coat packet and presented it to her with a flourish. “I’d get down on one knee,” he said, “but . . .” he looked down at the sidewalk to make his point, and then looked her in the eye to ask, “Kate Beckett, will you pretend marry me?”

“You’re crazy,” she said, shaking her head, but she smiled nonetheless, and slipped both the diamond and the matching wedding band onto her left hand. She looked at them and smiled again, before commenting, “I hope you didn’t spend too much; I’m not sure I can get you reimbursed.”

“No,” he assured her. “It wasn’t too much.” He didn’t tell her that any amount of money would’ve been worth it.

=====//=====

“So, what’s in there?” he asked eyeing the overnight bag that sat in her lap in the back seat of the cab.

“Surveillance equipment, first aid kit, and a few other things,” she answered, casually.

“Other . . . things?” He swallowed past a lump in his throat.

She smirked again, “Get a hold of yourself, Castle. It wouldn’t be a honeymoon if I didn’t pack my handcuffs.”

He nearly choked. “Handcuffs?”

“Of course,” she answered, and it was clear that she enjoyed seeing him squirm. “We’re here,” she announced the obvious as the cab slowed and then stopped in front of the Roosevelt.

“So we are,” he answered. “Are you ready?”

“I am,” Slipping almost effortlessly into the role of a blushing bride, she waited, letting Castle exit the cab first, and biting back her instinctual protest as he took her bag and passed it to the bellhop.

Efficiently, the other bags were also unloaded from the back of the cab, and Castle passed him a twenty dollar bill to take that and his suitcases to their room. “Malcom and Inara Reynolds,” he said in answer to the request for their name.”

“Inara?” the bellman repeated. “That’s unusual.”

“It’s Croatian,” she replied and laced her fingers through Castle’s.

“You folks here on your honeymoon?” he asked leading them into the hotel.

Beckett giggled—actually giggled—and Castle struggled not to react to how usualness the sound was. “We are,” she confirmed. “How did you guess?”

“You can tell,” he said, “after a while—when people are really in love, like the two of you are, it just shows.”

“Hear that?” Castle turned to Beckett. “Our love shows.”

“Isn’t that something?” she asked gripping his hand more tightly.

The desk clerk smiled at them both unctuously. “Mister and Missus Reynolds,” he said. “Welcome to New York City.”

“Thank you,” they said in unison, and then Beckett began to giggle again.

“Ah, yes, newlyweds,” the clerk said. “We’ve got a nice suite set up for you,” he handed the envelope with a pair of keycards to Castle. “And I’ll have a bottle of champagne sent up to you, with our compliments.”

“Thank you,” they again said in unison, and Castle found himself looking at Beckett, and wishing, just a little, that it really were their honeymoon.

“Let’s go,” he said, “we can’t keep . . .” he looked at the bellhop’s nametag “ _Jim_ waiting all day.”

“No,” she agreed, leaning into him, “we don’t.”

“Room 1498,” the clerk told the bellhop with a supercilious smile.

“This way, folks,” the clerk nodded and led the way.

=====//=====

“Here you are,” the bellhop, opened the door to their suite and flipped the lights on for them, proving he was worth the tip he’d been given.

“Great,” Castle smiled broadly. “Just one more thing . . .” In a swift move, he scooped Beckett into his arms, ignoring her squeak of protest and smacks against him.

“Gotta carry you over the threshold,” he said, after setting her down. “Verisimilitude, you know,” he added after checking to be sure the bellhop had closed the door behind them.

“Verisimilitude, Castle,” she seemed equal parts exacerbated and touched. “Verisimilitude would have included a wedding, and a white dress.”

He nodded. “I know; I’m sorry this wasn’t how you imagined it.”

“It’s not that bad,” she admitted with a soft smile. Moving to the rack where the bellhop had left her bag, she dug through it and announced, “I’m going to go change. Why don’t you make yourself comfortable?”

There was a knock at the door, and Castle opened it. “Complements of the hotel,” the room service waiter announced, wheeling in a small ice bucket with a bottle of champagne and then producing two flutes from his pockets. “Please be sure to let us know if there’s anything else we can do to make your stay memorable.”

“Thank you.” Castle nodded and reached into his wallet, once again tipping generously. “We will.”

“Enjoy your stay, Mister Reynolds.” the waiter smiled, and took the liberty of hanging the ‘Do not Disturb’ sign on the door on his way out.

“Our champagne’s here!” he called into the bathroom after Beckett and then began to fuss with the cork. It popped at the same moment she emerged, and he stood, momentarily stunned, staring at her as the effervescent beverage began to spill onto the floor.

She was clothed, but that did not mean she was covered. A gauzy white nightgown, trimmed with even filmier lace, left very little to the imagination, and she knew it. “Stop staring, Castle,” she ordered. “And pour the champagne before they charge us a cleaning fee for the carpet.”

“You’re . . .” he sputtered, but managed to right the bottle before any more spilled. “You’re . . .”

“Verisimilitude,” she reminded him and delicately plucked one of the champagne flutes from his hands. Sipping deeply, she sighed, and said, “very good.”

“Yes,” he agreed, still stunned nearly beyond the powers of speech.

“You haven’t even tried it yet,” she said. “How would you know?”

He glanced down at the label and the process seemed to break the spell he was under. “Cristal,” he said. “Good stuff.” He looked back up at her, admiring what he saw and nodding in approval. “I don’t think I ever told you,” he said. “I like your hair long; it suits you.”

She smiled, and he thought he even saw a blush. “It’s not my hair you’re looking at, Castle,” she then said with a smirk. “And if _any_ of this winds up in your next book, I’m going to eat your liver for breakfast, understood?”

“See,” he said, “that’s what I love about you! You always get straight to the heart of the matter.” The words were spoken before he realized the implication, and he regretted them almost immediately. He could only hope that she wouldn’t notice.

His hopes weren’t to be realized. “You _love_ that about me?” she asked.

“Of course,” he said, trying to sound blasé and failing miserably. “We’re playing a part, right?”

“Right,” she answered and sounded unconvinced, but she let it drop. “Cheers then,” she said, clinking glasses with him, and then quickly refilling her own. “To a successful investigation. . .”

“Cheers,” he responded, though he felt anything but cheerful.

=====//=====

Verisimilitude only went so far, and it was early the next morning when Castle woke, stiff, from having spent the night on the couch, and wooly-mouthed from the champagne. He squinted against the early morning sun that peeked through the blinds, and was surprised to see the bed empty. The sound of the shower quickly put to rest any questions he had, and for a brief moment he entertained the idea of joining her—in the name of verisimilitude.

Before he could talk himself either into—or out of—the idea, however, the water stopped, and Beckett emerged in the hotel’s fluffy bathrobe with a towel over her hair. “Shower’s all yours.”

“Sure you don’t want to join me?” he offered. “We’re on our honeymoon.”

She laughed, more amused than dismissive, and shook her head. “I wouldn’t want to distract you Castle; we _do_ have work to concentrate on.”

He smiled and yawned. “Your loss.”

She didn’t respond, but instead directed her attention to the in-room coffeemaker, and he wondered if perhaps she believed so as well.

=====//=====

He showered quickly—telling himself it was because he was eager to get back to the case rather than eager to return to her—and emerged in short order.

“So?” he asked toweling his hair. “What do we do now?”

She paused, and in that moment he realized just how complicated his question might be. She turned from the mirror with a smile, and said, “I don’t know, Castle, what do normal honeymooners do?”

He shook his head. “We’re not exactly ‘normal’.” He laughed softly at the idea, before adding, “Although going to bed early, and without . . .” he coughed as a means of filling in the idea and continued, “is not all that different from the honeymoon I had with my second wife.

She shook her head. “You’re right; you are anything _but_ normal, but let’s pretend.”

“Okay,” he agreed easily, and suggested, “How about ice skating?” He paused, and wrinkled his brow, thinking more, “or a carriage ride—the precinct’s covering it after all, and no one would ever take us for natives in one of those. First though,” he added. “You need to take your clothes off.”

“What!?” she was taken aback.

“How many honeymooners do you know who leave their hotel room before nine AM? We’re going to have a leisurely breakfast . . . in our pajamas.”

She paused, clearly looking for a way to poke holes in his logic. Unable to do so, she reluctantly agreed, but noted, “I’d say you’re a bit overdressed, too, buddy.”

=====//=====

It was several hours later—after they’d undressed, eaten, and re-donned their clothes, and then cushioned it with what Beckett deigned ‘reasonable honeymooner time’—before they emerged from their room.

“Mister and Missus Reynolds,” the concierge greeted them. “How nice to see you! Is there any way I can help you today.”

“Actually . . .” Castle began.

“We wanted to take a carriage ride--like you see in the movies,” Beckett interrupted. “Can you help us find something?” She squeezed his hand tightly, and he instantly understood her unspoken message: _we’re out-of-towners. We can’t just go off on our own_.

“Of course!” the concierge responded with an abundance of solicitousness. You can easily find them in Central Park. “Just go . . .” Castle’s attention waned during the directions. He and Beckett could find their way there blindfolded. He took the time instead to study her. She was dressed for the weather, and in the warm lobby her heavy outerwear had brought a flush to her cheeks. The gloves she wore covered up the wedding set, and he found himself somewhat disappointed by that. He liked the way the diamond looked on her hand.

“Thank you,” he said, realizing that the concierge had finished providing his expertise, and wrapping his arm around Beckett, prepared to escort her out.

“Oh, Mister Reynolds!” The concierge called after them before they made if for the door. “If you wish to escort Madame to a show this evening, I’d be happy to arrange for tickets.”

He paused, and the idea of doing just that suddenly became very appealing. If anything, it would help to reduce some of the awkwardness from having to spend so much time in close quarters with her. “I wish,” he agreed with no more hesitation. “Do you need a credit card?”

“That won’t be necessary,” the concierge assured him. “We can bill it to your room.”

“Great!” he agreed, and smiled at her. “Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

“A blast,” she agreed, and though there was no reason to doubt she felt anything other than what she said, he got the distinct impression she was much less enthusiastic.

He was proven right. “Are you crazy?” she asked, once they were out of ear shot. “No matter how much ‘discretionary’ spending we may have, there’s no way the department can afford tickets!”

“I’ll cover it,” Castle said simply. “My treat.”

Though somewhat less irate, she still protested. “I can’t ask you to do that.”

He smiled, and took her hand. “You’re not, asking, but it would be nice if you _let_ me.”

She couldn’t argue with that. “Okay.”

“Good,” he smiled again, and then asked, “was that our first fight?”

She laughed, and he couldn’t help but enjoy the sound, the way her eyes lit up with joy. “Come on,” she finally said, “let’s go see a man about a horse.”

=====//======

There were no shortage of carriages to be had in Central Park—all lined up, the horses stomping, and breathing heavy against the cold. He could see Beckett assessing them, unable to suppress her police side and ready to call and report at the first sign of underfeeding or abuse. As the climbed into the one on the end, he squeezed her hand. “Relax,” he coaxed, “we’re supposed to have fun; and if he overcharges us—which he will—don’t say a word.”

She sighed, but he saw her make an effort to at least relax, even if she’d never let her guard down.

The carriage driver was taciturn, but efficient—more than willing to take the honeymooners on a tour of the park, occasionally pointing out sites and adding detail when Castle, feigning wonder at everything, would ask for it.

Castle answered the few questions--they'd only been married a few days, were staying at the Roosevelt, they had enjoyed what they'd seen so far.

The driver dropped them off at the Wollman Rink, offering a curt nod of approval as Castle assisted her down. “You’ve got a beautiful wife, mister; take care of her. It’s a crazy city.”

“I will,” Castle confirmed. “I sure will.”

“I need to make a quick call,” he told her as soon as they’d rented skates and sat down to begin lacing up. “I’ll be right back.”

She narrowed her eyes, knowing that if it was something he didn’t want her to know about, it was something she was probably not going to be happy with. He was smiling, when he returned, which only added to her concerns.

However, there was no time to discuss them, as he had already brought her to her feet and begun to lead her out to the rink.

Castle was competent on ice skates, although rusty, but Beckett made him look like a mere beginner—skating backwards, and even managing a few spins as they made their way around the rink.

“I’m going to have to get Nikki Heat on skates,” he mused, adding, “you’re really good. How’d you learn?”

“I took lessons in when I was a kid,” she said casually, “just one of hundreds of other little girls who wanted to grow up to be just like Katarina Witt.”

“I demand pictures,” he said. “The only mental image I have of young Kate Beckett is of a very _serious_ girl already worried that somehow some annoying novelist is going to try to find ways of worming his way into her life.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘worming’,” she countered, skating backwards to keep eye contact, “and you’re not always annoying.”

He brought her hand to his lips, kissing it softly through the soft leather of her glove. “I like spending time with you, too,” he answered.

=====//======

“Mister Reynolds; Missus Reynolds” the concierge greeted Castle as he and Beckett walked back into the hotel. “How was your afternoon?”

“Wonderful,” Castle answered, and Beckett agreed.

“Lovely.”

He nodded. “Excellent to hear,” and then continued, addressing Castle directly, “We were able to arrange for your request, and the package is in your room along with tickets to an 8 PM showing of ‘Million Dollar Quartet.’ I took the liberty of picking the show; I hope you’re not disappointed.”

“It’ll be great; thank you,” Castle said, and then put an exaggerated finger to his lips. Clearly whatever ‘arrangements’ had been made were a surprise for Beckett.

“What have you done?” she asked the moment they were alone in the elevator.

“Nothing,” he said, simply. “Just arrangements for tonight.”

“What sort of arrangements?” she pressed as he slid the keycard into their door.

He shrugged. “I wasn’t sure you packed for a show. So I had them find something in your size.”

“Oh, Castle,” she sighed and opened the box. “I can’t let you . . .” she stopped. “This is beautiful.”

He had to agree. Simple, understated, but cut to flatter her figure. “Try it on,” he said, adding, “please.”

Before she could do so, Beckett’s cell phone rang. As she reached to answer it, Castle’s did as well, and he groaned realizing it was his mother.

“I wouldn’t normally call during your honeymoon, darling,” Martha apologized before he could even say ‘hello,’ “but since it’s not a real honeymoon, I figured I’d let you know that I told Alexis she could spend the night with a friend tonight.”

“Is this ‘friend’ of the masculine or feminine persuasion?” Castle asked.

Martha paused, and Castle felt a knot growing in the pit of his stomach. “You know,” she finally said, “I totally forgot to ask. Does it make a difference?”

“’Does it make a difference?’” he echoed. “She could be out there doing . . .”

“Relax, darling,” Martha cut him short. “It’s Julie . . . you know—science fair and AP History Julie. Of course, I checked. I’m not completely incompetent as a grandmother—only as a mother.”

“Oh . . .” he said, feeling somewhat embarrassed. “Okay.”

“Not that it would matter if it was a boy. I mean, after all—look at you and Beckett. You’re spending the night together in a posh hotel, and nothing’s going in between you, right?”

He glanced over at her. She’d finished her phone call quickly and had turned his back on him. Clad only in panties in a bra, she was slipping into the dress the concierge had chosen, and he found himself wanting to slip it right back off of her. Still, he managed to say, “Of course not, mother; this is business.”

“That’s what I thought,” she answered in a way that left him wondering whether his mother was capable of reading his mind.

=====//=====

It was a struggle for him to pay attention to the stage. Instead, it was Beckett’s perfume, Beckett’s legs, Beckett’s mere proximity that drew his attention, and by the time they made it back to the room, rather than talking about the show, his only comment was, “I think we should get another bottle of champagne.”

Though he stood no hope of it actually clearing his head, he did hope that the alcohol might serve to dull his senses enough that he wouldn’t do anything that Beckett would ensure he’d regret.

“No way,” she answered immediately. “No alcohol on city funds.”

“I’ll pay,” he said, and she glared at him. “You know most detectives don’t have such a ready source of funds.”

“I know,” he said, “but as long as I’m here, I wish you’d take advantage of me.”

She looked away, and inhaled sharply before meeting his eyes, and he saw something in her that made his blood run both hot and cold when she said, “Don’t make offers like that if you’re not prepared to honor them, Castle.”

He met her gaze, and licked his lips, his voice coming out a little hoarse when he answered, “I wouldn’t dream of it.” Before the discussion could go any further, he reached for the phone to order the alcohol, and Beckett took the opportunity to retreat to the bathroom and change.

The effect of her negligee was less pronounced as he’d seen it once before, but he still found himself staring more than would ever be appropriate in a professional context.

“Do you need help with that?” she asked, smirking, as he struggled with the cork.

“I’m fine,” he said, but she reached for it nonetheless, and it popped the moment her hands met his.

“I guess you did have it all in hand,” she said with another smirk and allowed him to pour.

She sat on the edge of the bed, and so he chose the couch—desperately keeping a distance between them and hating himself for it at the same time.

“So, Detective Beckett,” he said after having taken a deep swig from the champagne. “In this dream wedding of yours—did you ever give any thought to the groom?”

She smiled as she thought about his question. “I don’t know,” she finally admitted, “I had a few ideas—tall, handsome, smart—but mostly I just wanted someone I could relate to, you know? Someone who’d let me be myself, but challenge me at the same time. Someone like . . .”

He moved from the couch to the bed before he even realized he was doing so. “Like what?” he asked, pushing her hair back to cup her cheek. He knew the answer, and she knew it, but he still wanted to hear her say it.

“Like . . . you.”

He nodded, and there wasn’t any need for further discussion as he leaned in to kiss her. She tasted of the champagne, though neither of them had had much to drink at all. There was an entirely different, and much longer lasting, intoxicant at work now. Her tongue was in his mouth, and his hands had already slipped under the straps of her negligee. Warm. Soft. Perfect. His brain awash in more adjectives than he could ever name or count, he simply shut it off and enjoyed the experience.

He pulled back needing to catch his breath, and used the opportunity to read her quickly seeking some sort of confirmation that he’d not misread the situation.

He hadn’t. This time it was Beckett who moved first, taking him by the hand and pulling him toward the bed. This was happening, and Castle felt it might be the greatest moment of his life.

Which meant, of course, that it was inevitable that something go wrong. He didn’t realize it at first. Beckett had become the center of his universe, and he sank back into the bed with her one hand sliding up her thigh as the other sought to work the clasp on the back of her gown.

Her eyes grew wide and she clutched his arm. “Oh, my God.”

“I know,” he answered, kissing her again.

“No. . .” she pushed against him, trying to stop him, and pointed. “There’s someone in our room.”

“There’s someone in our . . .” He spun to see where she was pointing. “There’s someone in our room!!”

It was the buggy driver from the afternoon. Still clad in his uniform, he was wielding his whip. Castle had little doubt that were Lanie to do the analysis it would match the ligature marks on the previous victims’ necks. “I told you to keep an eye on your wife, Mister Reynolds,” he said advancing toward them. “You should’ve fastened the deadbolt.”

“You didn’t fasten the deadbolt?” Beckett asked reaching blindly for something to cover herself. She felt more vulnerable than ever, not only have been caught with Castle as she was, but absent her gun, her cuffs, or anything else she might be able to use to defend—or apprehend—this guy.

“No . . . _sweetheart_ ,” he answered, trying to step between Beckett and the whip-wielding maniac. “I thought you were going to get that.”

“You were the last one to answer the door . . . _darling_ ,” she responded. “You should’ve fastened it after that.”

“Right you are.” He continued to close the gap. “My mistake.”

“To bad it’ll cost you both your lives,” the driver shoved past Castle to advance on Beckett. Kicking and clawing at him, she was still unable to fend him off.

“Get off her!” Castle pulled at the attacker’s shoulders but it was like trying to move a statue, and all he could see was the panic in Beckett’s eyes.

Panic. And the reflection of the Champagne bottle.

He reached for it, and without a moment’s hesitation cracked it over the driver’s skull.

Nothing happened.

Castle raised the bottle to swing again just the driver turned, getting the full force of it right in his face. This time, the glass smashed and the driver fell, blinded by the mixture of blood and champagne now pouring down his face.

Gasping for breath, Beckett managed to leap from the bed, and grab her cuffs. “Don’t move,” she ordered both men. “I’m going to call for back-up and . . .” she looked down at her clothes, “get dressed,” she finished.

Castle nodded his understanding. It was over.

=====//=====

“So, his wife was killed?” Castle asked as Beckett finished her paperwork.

“Hit by a cab on their honeymoon,” she confirmed.

Castle frowned. “Poor bastard.”

“Poor, _sick_ bastard,” Beckett amended. “There were two other murders that we didn’t know anything about.”

“Wow . . .” He shook his head. There wasn’t much he could add. “It all feels sort of anticlimactic though.”

She closed the manila folder, and pushed it aside to look at him. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Just if I were writing this, I’d want a little bit more—something to make the ending a little more . . . fulfilling.”

She leaned over and smiled. “Well . . .” she said, slowly, “the hotel room is still paid up for the night, and since the champagne bottle is now in evidence, I think we can make the argument to let the department buy a replacement. How does that ending sound?”

“I couldn’t’ve written it better myself,” he answered. And this time, he had a feeling it really _would_ be perfect.

He stood and reached for her hand. She let him take it, lacing her fingers with his, and they walked from the station hand-in-hand.

 _~finis~_


End file.
